


favors to return

by stuff_and_nonsense



Series: Widojest Week 2019 [2]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Healing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2020-06-25 17:00:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19749958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stuff_and_nonsense/pseuds/stuff_and_nonsense
Summary: Jester & Caleb help each other out with their battle injuries.





	favors to return

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Widojest Week day 2: Healing
> 
> cw for description of injuries, and minor references to Caleb’s backstory. This is still pretty much fluff though.

The last orc swings an axe straight down into Jester’s arm; a moment later, he flies back across the field as a bolt of magic slams into his chest. Caleb lowers his hands and checks the scene: all his friends still standing, all the orcs dead on the ground. His next thought is to go to Jester, who’s bleeding far more than the rest of them. But Caduceus is already there, and he’ll be far more useful than Caleb could be.

The sky is growing dim, and they’re all exhausted. Caleb shuts it all out, the bodies and the smell of blood and Jester’s distressed noises, and draws out the sigils for Leomund’s tiny hut. It’s just sprung up around him when he hears a rush of air. An arrow bounces off the hut in front of him; another sinks into Caduceus’s shoulder twenty feet away. Another band of orcs is riding towards them, bows drawn; his friends are already running for the hut.

They stumble inside in a rush. Jester is leaning on Beau, practically dragged behind her. Her arm and side is a mess of blood. Caleb grabs for Caduceus, who looks at him regretfully.

“I need to rest before I can cast anything, and so does she” he says. “I’ll wrap her up, but it’s deep enough it should be sewn closed, and I don’t think I can manage it right now…” He looks at the arrow still sticking out of his shoulder.

Beau swears. “Just do something. She’s bleeding out.”

She’s right, Caleb sees. The wound is long and deep, a bit of white bone poking through, and Jester’s losing blood fast. Beau is helping Caduceus tie a tourniquet now, but who knows if that will be enough.

“I can do it,” Caleb says. “Sew her up.”

“Really?” says Beau. “You know how?”

“He can!” Nott chimes in. “He’s done it for me before, and I’m not dead, so…”

“I’ve had a bit of practice,” Caleb says. He prefers not to use this particular skill, given the circumstances in which he learned it, but it seems like their best option.

Beau digs through the haversack, and pulls out Jester’s medicine kit. Caleb digs through to find the needle and thread, then burns the needle sterile with a flick of his fingers. He bends over Jester, unwilling to meet her eyes. 

“I am sorry to hurt you more,” he says as he pokes the first stitch into place. “But I hope you can forgive this once I’ve finished.” He draws the catgut through each stitch, trying not to think about Jester’s blood on his fingers, or the tiny winces she makes each time he sticks the needle in. His mind drifts; he’s back at the Academy, sewing up one of Astrid’s wounds after a long day of training. Then he feels a pressure on his thigh.

He snaps back to reality. Jester’s hand, from her uninjured arm, is resting just above his knee, squeezing lightly. He’s almost finished sewing up the wound. He pulls the last stitch through, and dares to look at her. She’s sweating, but still conscious, and coherent when she asks him if it’s done.

She beams when he says it is, and then, once he’s bandaged the wound under Caduceus’s supervision, sits up and hugs him with her good arm. He’s relieved enough that he barely tenses up, actually finds himself smiling. She’s going to be all right.

The band of orcs is still outside, occasionally swinging an exploratory blow at the hut. It holds steady though, so the Nein decide the best course of action is to wait, and get what rest they can. Caduceus takes first watch, and the rest pull out their bedrolls. Caleb watches as Jester nestles down into hers, and Nugget curls up by her feet. It takes him a while to fall asleep, but at last, after he’s seen that her breathing is steady and no blood oozes through the bandages, he drifts off.

He’s woken up while it’s still dark to take the last watch. The orcs come and go, sometimes circling, sometimes vanishing behind the hills, and he counts down the minutes until his spell ends. He shakes the others awake just before it does, and they gather their things, ambush the band of orcs just as the dome drops. Now that they’re fresh and recovered, the fight goes more smoothly. Caleb thinks they’ve just about won when a sword-blow cuts deep into his side, and everything goes black.

The next thing he feels is a kind of bubbling warmth, tickling at the edges of his brain. He opens his eyes with a start to see Jester above him, looking concerned. He can feel her hand on the side of his face.

“You didn’t have to make me pay you back that quickly,” she complains. Her hand doesn't leave his cheek.

Caleb’s whole body aches, except for where Jester’s touching him. He groans as he props himself up. “Are we safe?” he asks. 

“For now,” she says, “but we need to leave soon. I’m just making sure you’re ok first.”

He doesn't feel great, but then, he’s felt much worse. Well enough at least to be shamefully distracted by the way she’s leaning over him. 

“I will be fine,” he says. “And you? How are you feeling?” He berates himself for not thinking of it before. He looks over at her arm; the bandage is gone, and she seems as hearty as ever.

“I’m ok now!” she says. “Thank you, by the way, for sewing me up last night.”

“It was nothing,” he says, as he clambers to his feet. “No substitute for proper healing I’m afraid. And we are even now, ja?”

She takes his hand again, to his surprise. “We are, but you had better stop passing out. I don’t want to do this all the time, ok?”

If he were a braver man, he would say the same to her. Tell her how worried he’d been, last night, that she wouldn't make it. Maybe even how much it would hurt him, let slip just a little of what he feels for her. But he’s not brave, so instead he just says, “I wish I could promise that, but I am very weak, as you know. I will try my best though.”

“You’d better,” she says, and steps away to check on the rest of the group. But she squeezes his hand before she turns to go, and he thinks maybe, someday, there will still be time to say more.


End file.
